


Snake Bites

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Future Fic, Light Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Wherein Margaery is used to being in control but the Sand Snakes master her.</i>
</p><p>A new era, new allies. Margaery goes to Dorne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snake Bites

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round eight of the GOT Exchange for madamechataya. Prompt as seen in first part of summary. Many thanks to Mona for the invaluable, much-needed beta on this.
> 
> Please enjoy.

“I think,” Margaery announces, drawing back the curtains of the wheelhouse with a curious hand, “that I will go the rest of the way ahorse.” 

The proclamation is met with gasps and frowns from her two cousins, but Layla, sitting on a cushion nibbling at the remainder of the grapes, only smiles, and inches her way across to the opposite side of the ambling vehicle. 

“I will tell Calum to prepare Silverstrain for you,” she says, leaning out of the window, and Margaery smiles her thanks.

“But it’s so warm out,” Ryssa protests, peering out through the gap that Margaery had made in the silks. Dorne lays flat and dun brown in the foreground, dipping and arching with dunes in the distance. Heat rises thick from the sand. Margaery thinks it queer to look around and find no green to ease the eye, little foliage to break the monotony, but there is something compelling about this red land nevertheless.

“Indeed it is,” she replies, stretching a hand out into the sun. The glow gives fire to her skin, and the heat is biting, but not unpleasantly so. “This land seems not to know that winter has come, and I intend to take advantage of its forgetfulness as long as I can. Besides, my lady hostesses shall be mounted, or afoot, and I think it only meet that I should greet them likewise.”

Her guard will not be pleased, but neither will they be surprised; they know it is her way. Years after Daenerys’ landing, after fire and blood, after Willas and Arianne met to discuss the ushering in of a new era, the resentment between Highgarden and Sunspear still simmers like a bubbling stew. The smallfolk here have little love for the Reach, but Margaery will not let it deter her. 

Ryssa is biting her lip unsurely, and Megga gives voice to the doubts that they harbour. Her curls toss about her shoulders.

“‘Ladies’?” she sniffs. “Surely you mean _snakes_.”

It is meant to ruffle her, but Margaery only smiles again. She can spy Calum leading her mare forward, and prepares to disembark.

“Why not both?”

~

When the last portcullis of the Threefold Gates slams down behind Margaery and her entourage, the group assembled in Sunspear’s courtyard flows forward to meet them, a tall, dark-haired youth at the head. Margaery allows Ferland to help her down from her mount, and waits for her host to come to her. The youth, dark of skin and curly-haired, is simply dressed in a sleeveless tunic and thin trousers, but it is only when Margaery spies the many-metaled chain glinting around their neck that she realises who approaches.

“Lady Margaery,” Sarella Sand says, grasping one of her hands to drop an airy, almost nonchalant kiss to it. “Dorne welcomes you with open arms.”

Dorne had welcomed the caravans that went before her with open arms. For the rest, Margaery will see in time, she supposes. 

“You do me great honour, Lady Sarella,” she returns, smiling at the arched brow and sharp grin she receives. “It is not every day one can boast of being in the presence of the only female maester in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sarella’s eyes are obsidian thick, and sparkle with similar intensity. 

“Most people do not see it as something to boast about.”

“Most people, or most men?”

Sarella grins again. Its effect is such that Margaery feels as if she has been cut and healed in one stroke. “Come,” she says, tugging Margaery lightly by the hand; a gesture far too familiar for her guards’ liking, but Margaery’s glance stays their protest.

Princess Arianne, she knows, is in King’s Landing with the Queen; it is with faint dismay that she learns that Tyene had journeyed to join her there a week earlier. Margaery would have liked to meet again with the sweet-mannered, viper-tongued young woman who had shown her so much kindness in the capital, seven years ago.

In her place, she meets her sisters. Lady Nymeria drags her eyes over Margaery with a look that straddles insolence and pleasure, and assures her that it is lovely to see her again. Margaery smiles to both scent her perfume and feel the steel of her hidden daggers when she leans in to kiss her cheek. Obara she does not meet so much as she glimpses; the eldest sister strides past along an inner wall without sparing her a glance. Elia has a strong grip and no end to her smiles, Obella greets her with a million questions, and the younger ones stand guard about their mother with a fierceness that shows them to be Snakes. 

“My uncle is resting at the Water Gardens,” Sarella informs her as she is shown to her rooms, “and I expect he will extend an invitation to you at length. He insists that all visitors to Dorne must see the pools.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Margaery says, trying to hide her surprise. The prince of Dorne’s illness had been the worst kept secret in Westeros for years, and now that the war is over, he keeps out of the public eye more than ever. She had expected to pass her stay in Dorne without sight of him.

Sarella catches her eye and winks, so fast Margaery might have imagined it.

“I think he’s curious about you. We all are, Lady Margaery.”

Margaery’s pulse quickens at the unsaid, but she only inclines her head with a polite smile.

“Consider me an open book, my lady. Curiosity is meant to be sated.”

~

Later at night, Layla brushes her hair and fills her in on all her gathered gossip.

“Lady Ellaria remembers you kindly, it seems; it was she who saw to it that you were roomed in such spacious quarters with such an excellent view.”

Margaery is touched; she’d recalled little of the Red Viper’s paramour, save her beauty and how many at court had scoffed at her presence there. She makes a note to pay her a visit.

“Most of the servants had wagers on how soon Dornish fare would bring you to tears.”

“Did they?” Margaery laughs. “I don’t suppose I blame them, though I must have disappointed them bitterly at the feast tonight.”

“You did,” Layla replies with gusto, gathering Margaery’s curls to arrange them into her customary braid, moving with expert quickness. “Many here still call you the Virgin Queen,” she continues, pricklier than before. 

“They are not alone in that,” Margaery replies with a shrug. She has had the sly name on her heels since she was sixteen years old, and it had remained through two slain husbands, one annulment, and a ceremony interrupted by dragonfire. It doesn’t bother her, but Layla is fiercely loyal and sensitive to her feelings. She can feel the frown in the twist of her clever fingers, and reaches back to rest a gentle hand on her waist.

“Was there aught else?” she questions.

Layla hesitates before she speaks again, half huffing, half smiling.

“The Lady Obara was heard to boast that she could be between your legs and ridding you of that title within three days.”

That provokes a burst of high, delighted laughter that she has to stifle behind a hand. Her eyes flash in the mirror.

“My, how rude.”

“Indeed.” Layla finishes her work, and throws Margaery’s braid over her shoulder. “It would take at least five.”

Margaery laughs again, and springs from her seat to tickle her maid to the floor.

~

A part of her hopes Obara laid heavy coin on that wager; coin that she would lose for her casual arrogance. The note she receives the following evening is from Nymeria.

“I almost didn’t think you’d come,” she whispers against Margaery’s mouth, cupping her buttocks and pressing her into the door. She is tall, as all of the Sand Snakes are tall, and Margaery has to stand on the very tips of her toes to reach her lips, kiss them, lick her way between them. 

“You don’t know me very well,” Margaery reminds her, and gasps as Nymeria’s thumb finds and attacks the sensitive spot near her hipbone. Margaery had seen few but the septas during her trial, and had not been long for Highgarden after it. “But we may remedy that.”

Nymeria draws back, and there is a moment of bone white static before she smirks and pushes Margaery onto the silk-strewn bed as if she weighed but an ounce. She bounces once before Nymeria is on top of her, drawing a small knife out of its hiding place.

“You please me much,” she confesses, sounding almost perturbed beneath the husk of her pleasure. Margaery’s pulse quickens, but she is not afraid. She watches, heart thundering like hooves in a tourney, as Nymeria’s blade makes a precise cut down the middle of her gown, from her bodice to the apex of her thighs. The material spreads apart as her legs do, falling away along with her smallclothes beneath it. The steel never touches her skin, but her stomach tenses anyway, and the bundle of nerves above her cunt swells and grows slick with anticipation.

“Very much,” Nymeria says, pushing the ruined dress aside to palm her chest. Her own sheer attire slips off seemingly of its own volition, baring small hard breasts, dark nipples, and leagues of olive skin.

“You sound surprised,” Margaery whispers with a shiver. Sweat gathers on her brow and between her breasts. Nymeria seems content to watch her fidget and shift, to tease the shuddering of her body into a quake, dragging her sharp fingers all over her bared skin.

“I’ve never had much use for roses,” she admits, and bends to scrape her teeth against the pebble of one of Margaery’s nipples. “But there is something to be said for a woman who has buried three husbands and seen a fourth into exile.” She suckles at the other nipple, long and hard, pinning Margaery to the sheets with her eyes. Nymeria’s fingers make as if to dip beneath her curls, but she draws back at the last moment, and Margaery keens and rolls her hips.

“There is also something to be said,” she declares, panting slightly, “about a snake who lures a woman into its bed, only to speak of men instead of giving her the bite.” Her hands trail up and down Nymeria’s sides, feeling her warmth and her strength. “And it is not a very flattering something.”

Nymeria laughs, and slaps her gently across the face. When Margaery gasps, both shocked and pleased, Nymeria grabs both her wrists with one hand, and leans down to kiss the red spot. 

“I am very glad you came,” she says, grinning a grin that makes Margaery’s skin prickle all over in gooseflesh, makes her become even slicker between the legs. Before she can muster up a reply, Nymeria tears the remains of her gown off of her, and leaves a burning trail of kisses down her stomach. She only to pauses to lift one of Margaery’s legs over her shoulder and spread the other wide before she licks into her with hard intent, curling her tongue out and over her in broad, hot strokes.

“Seven _hells_ ,” Margaery gasps, the second syllable has barely breached her lips before Nym tears away, eyes glinting. Margaery grasps at the sheets in frustration. 

“Every time you make a sound,” Nymeria says slowly, tossing her braid over her shoulder, “I stop. Understood?”

Margaery nods jerkily, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, but Nymeria only stares at her, licking her lips patiently until Margaery chokes out, “I understand.”

“Good.”

She spreads Margaery’s legs again and makes her peak within the minute, sucking on her nub with soft lips and hot breath. Margaery screams, and they start all over again.

~

Layla shakes her head.

“It was a very pretty gown,” she says, inspecting the ruin.

“I know,” Margaery says, floating about the room without really listening. “I’m very sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

Layla shakes her head again, and automatically tilts her cheek to accept the kiss that she knows is forthcoming. Margaery presses it there with utmost gentleness before resuming her pacing. The maid giggles.

“No, you won’t.”

~

Compared to the reports she’s heard of the sweltering Dornish summers, the weather at Sunspear is positively mild. Margaery relishes in it, in being able to take the air without the heaviness of a cloak about the shoulders, to walk arm in arm with her cousins beneath the stinging sun, and feel the bracing sea air that sweeps in off the coast like the hint of a god-stirred storm. She sometimes ventures into the town that clings to the walls of the castle. The people come to know her by sight, and the orphans and street urchins know to flock around when she brings her retinue. Often, Sarella finds her on her walks, and takes her for impromptu tours of the castle and town, recounts the stories she’d had from her father, fetches blood oranges out of her pockets for her to eat.

Those are the days. At night, the temperature drops to an almost unbearable degree, unlike anything Margaery has ever felt, even in her forays as far north as Dragonstone. Here, the cold pinches, envelops everything like a blanket of dry frost, crumbling unseen atop the sands. Most nights she spends curled next to Layla or Megga or Ryssa, but other nights, she will have a note from Nym.

On a night like this, five days into her stay, she meets the Lady Obara as she glides on slippered feet down the halls to Nymeria’s room. They have met once, formally, but other than a few grunts at mealtimes, Obara does little to acknowledge her. It is no different now; the eldest Sand Snake stalks past her with a derisive sneer, the whip at her hip smacking her thigh with every stride. 

“I think I may have done something to upset your sister,” Margaery says later on. Her hands are tied above her head, and she watches as Nym adjusts the harness around her hips. A slim phallus fashioned from ivory is attached to its centre. 

“You may have,” Nymeria agrees. “Or perhaps not. Obara looks venomous most of the time, you mustn’t read too much into it, little rose.”

“Ah, I didn’t even have to specify which sister,” Margaery points out. She bites her lip as Nymeria gets the oil, but knows better by now than to move out of position.

“Of course you didn’t.” Nymeria tosses her hair. Tonight, it runs liquid down her back like a river of pitch, inky and thick. A few stray tendrils all forward onto her chest, as gentle hands cupping her breasts. “Who else but my sweet Obara? Now spread your legs, let me see you. I don’t want to talk about my sister.”

Margaery obeys, throat dry. She opens up, and Nymeria crawls between her legs, looking down at her and kissing her kneecap while Margaery squirms on the spot, shoulders firm but cheeks red.

“Are you wet for me?” she asks in a low hum. She doesn’t wait for Margaery to answer, but presses her thumb against her clitoris and then drags it lower, sinking into Margaery with ease. Shaking, she flushes deeper, hips jumping. Nymeria’s thumb comes away slick with her dampness, and she licks it away carefully. Margaery feels dizzy. “Sweet,” she murmurs. “Spread wider.”

Again, Margaery obeys.

~

The archery range is ringed on all sides by a simple, high fence wrought with planks of applewood. The blood orange trees still climb high enough to hang over some of the sides, and even now, this late in the season, they still bear their fruits. Sarella keeps an arrow nocked as she and Margaery sit conversing on the steps, and each time an orange falls, she pins it to the fence before it can touch the dust, squelching its red insides over the tan wood.

“That is very impressive,” praises Margaery after the third fruit is felled, a scant second after its weight proves too much for the tree. “Where did you hone your skill?”

“Oh, here and there,” is the smiling reply, the faint hint of laughter on her tongue. Her curls spill over around her ears and onto her forehead, softening the angles of her jaw and cheeks. The point of her widow’s peak dips forward into her skin like the edge of a cliff.

“Every answer you give me seems to breed more questions,” Margaery accuses good-naturedly.

“Is that so?” Sarella is still smiling faintly as she draws another arrow out of her quiver. “A few years ago, some might have said the same about you.”

Margaery stretches her legs before tucking them back in and laying her chin upon a hand to look at her companion.

“What do you know of the woman I was a few years ago?”

“Oh, this and that.”

Margaery pretends to scowl, and flicks the pit of a date at Sarella, who grins and knocks it away with the upper limb of her bow. When she smiles like that, she greatly resembles what Margaery remembers of her father: confident, sleek, smart. 

“I know,” Sarella gives, maintaining her sights on the line of blood orange trees, “that you have married several times, and I can tell that your loves were greater in number, and I suspect that the two did not overlap.”

Margaery reaches out to collect herself a grape, and doesn’t let her face give her away. Sarella has the right of it. Four times, Margaery had married for her family, and she would do it four times again if there was ever need. Another Renly, another monster, a child afresh with sweet smiles, or a new imposter destined to die in dragonflame. She would do it all again if need be. 

But those days, she reminds herself, looking at the trees and the restless sea in the distance, are done.

A bird screams, and takes off from a branch in a flurry of wings and leaves. Whisper-soft and just as quick, Sarella’s arrow leaves her bow, but to Margaery’s surprise, it knocks hollowly into the wooden fence, and the falling orange bursts in the dust below.

“Ah… you missed,” she says in commiseration. Surprisingly – or perhaps not – Sarella is smiling.

“I did indeed. I do not want to stop improving.”

Margaery tilts her head. In this light, Sarella’s eyes look almost pupil-less, and she becomes ever more the quick, sly reptile, concealing itself in the sand.

“Must you always speak in riddles?” Margaery demands, softening the quip with a smile of her own. Sarella inclines her head in a small bow.

“I apologise. An old habit.”

~

“But when might we leave?” Ryssa wants to know, her voice sinking deeper into petulancy. Margaery rolls her eyes briefly, then takes her cousin’s hand and pats it, to reassure her that she is not being unkind. The waves crashing upon the shore create a dull roar like battle, and combined with the brisk sea air, it is all that Margaery needs to felt stirred and alive, but she suspects that it only makes Ryssa melancholy. The Sunset Sea is beautiful in all its power, but it is not the Mander.

“You and Megga may make your excuses and take your leave of our new allies in a week or so without seeming very rude. But you’ll be doing so without me, my sweet.” She shushes her cousin when the younger would protest. Margaery knows what must be done; she knew it before she arrived, before Willas or Grandmother would have thought to broach the subject. “I’m afraid I’ve made up my mind to stay as long as they’ll have me. Dorne needs a Tyrell right now, to solidify what we have grown. Mother mourns still, Willas’ place is at Highgarden, Garlan has his family, and you know Loras does poorly with travel and the heat. I will stay.”

Thinking about her brothers makes her sad, for a brief moment. Mace’s death had brought them closer together, in the way that tragedy during wartime only could. They would have liked it here. Being near the ocean might have done Loras a bit of good; Renly had loved the sea.

“I don’t want to leave you alone…” Ryssa worries at her bottom lip. “But I don’t think I have to tell you that I haven’t taken to Dorne very much. I miss the Reach, winter or no winter.”

Margaery bumps her cousin’s shoulder with her own. 

“You won’t be leaving me. I have Layla.” She points her chin towards her long-time friend and maid, gathering sea shells along the beach. “I have Ferland and Calum, and they’re the best swords I could ask for, barring Garlan and Loras. I have the Snakes.”

She means it as a jest, she thinks, but as soon as it comes out, she sees that Ryssa does not take it as such. Bracing her hands atop the cloth in the sand, she shakes her head.

“I still don’t see how they can call themselves after an animal like that.”

Margaery shrugs. “I can’t think of a time that I ever referred to _myself_ as the Rose of Highgarden. Yet here I am.”

Ryssa makes a little face, as if to say that it’s not the same thing at all, but she keeps her peace. They chat about little things, castle gossip and affairs that remind them of home, watching the waves crash about, watching Layla dart in and out to avoid them as she continues her hunt. They remain there until the sun purples in the sky, the light wanes low, and their guard and a grunting Obara come to fetch them up to the keep.

~

At the beginning of the next week, Margaery goes to Sarella’s room.

She spent last night with Nym, but she does not think Sarella will mind if she knows, and she will certainly know. Her quiet knock is answered with a low voice, and Margaery enters the room to find the girl known as the Sphinx lying prone upon the bed with a book in her hands. Her maester’s chain hangs on a hook upon the wall, its many metals catching the low light. When Sarella sees that her visitor is Margaery, she sits up. When she sees what Margaery wears beneath the robes that she shrugs lightly to the floor, she marks her place in the book, closes it, and places it upon her night stand.

Margaery settles herself in Sarella’s lap, and their first kiss is as two magnets coming together at the behest of an unknowable force. Margaery rolls her hips against the older woman’s, looping her arms around her neck. She finds her movements being stilled, however, her chin being clasped so that Sarella can sweep along the roof of her mouth, across her lips, briefly rub against her tongue. When she tries to move again she is restrained further, with strong hands and a stronger will manoeuvring her onto her back. Sarella kisses away every clasp to the sheer gown that she wears with agonising slowness, with an endless well of patience, until Margaery is quite light-headed and clawing at her back in lust.

“What do you want?” Sarella asks, sliding a cool finger into Margaery’s curls and down between her lips, toying with her.

“I… oh, _anything_ , I…”

She curves her hips up, hoping Sarella will slide in, but she does not. She draws away, and presses her thumb against one of Nymeria’s bruises on her waist. Margaery hisses, trembling.

“Please be specific,” Sarella urges in the politest tone of voice. She grips one of Margaery’s nipples, twists it until it turns dark red and Margaery gasps. “What do you want?”

“Oh, gods… you, anything… I want to touch you, I want you to touch me. I don’t want it to end too soon… please, oh my—”

“Better,” Sarella judges, still conversational. She leans back in to kiss Margaery, whispering in places that make her body ache, make her cunt warm with wanting. One hand trails up and over her body, leaving marks of her own, while her other hand quickly divests herself of her clothes. Margaery slides her eyes open as they kiss, eager to see every square of brown skin as it is revealed to her, each mole and each freckle. Every part of her is strong, supple and firm, and Margaery’s knees turns liquid all over again to know that she is truly touching her. 

Sarella pulls away, slowly makes a fist in Margaery’s hair.

“Down,” she coaxes, gesturing to the floor. “On your knees.”

Margaery doesn’t need to be told twice, but she hesitates anyway, just to see what Sarella will do. She gets nothing but an enigmatic smile and another tug on her hair. Margaery folds to her knees, and Sarella shifts forward until her hips rest at the edge of the bed, and then guides Margaery in closer.

Sarella is salty and sweet in a way that makes Margaery buck forward and cover her with her mouth, breathing in deeply as she kisses her. A girl in King’s Landing had once claimed that if you ate naught but fruits for a day your cunt would be as sweet and fine as wine. Sarella tastes as if she subsists on nothing but the oranges and wrinkled pears that grow in Dorne’s strange winter. She is quiet, quieter than any woman that Margaery has ever been with, and every little gasp and moan and low word of praise that Margaery wrests from her goes straight between her legs like a lightning bolt.

“Don’t stop,” Sarella urges in a whisper, and Margaery rides her tongue up and over her clitoris until Sarella’s thighs start to quiver. The sight of her reaching her peak and grinding onto her mouth is so intoxicating, and Margaery tries to steal a hand between her own legs.

“Oh no,” Sarella says gently, with only the faintest tremor in her voice. It is completely at odds with the way she grips Margaery’s tresses and tugs her head back, baring the column of her throat. Margaery feels deliciously exposed. “I said don’t stop.”

Her heart thuds.

Margaery makes her come twice again, working until her jaw is sore and she’s heady with the scent of her. Only then does Sarella allow her to climb atop her, to straddle one of her thighs. One bronzed hand rests on her waist and the other on her knee, helping to spread her legs and press her wet cunt to the smooth skin. Margaery blushes to the roots of her hair, feeling the acute weight of Sarella’s eyes upon her as she undulates her hips, rubbing herself against the firm muscle, pinching her nipples and grinding down until her mind thrums with light.

~

The day after Ryssa and Megga take their leave, placing chaste kisses on Margaery’s lips before setting out with the Dornish sun on their back and a small company beside them, Trystane returns from Oldtown.

The youngest Martell is a serious youth, reserved and comely. Margaery takes to him immediately, and is delighted to find that he plays cyvasse. Nym has no patience for the game, Sarella only plays when she is of the right humour, and she and Layla know each other far too well to be satisfactory opponents anymore. 

“You almost won that round,” Margaery observes encouragingly, sitting back to grab a stuffed pepper as Trystane clears the board. The prince twists his lips with wry amusement.

“There is no need for flattery, Lady Margaery.”

“Our Trystane is a fine player, but always takes his defeats with grace,” Ellaria puts in, smiling from her perch on the settee. 

“A necessary symptom of being surrounded by near experts all my life,” he says, smiling. “Well played, my lady. You cornered me with remarkable skill.”

“I only have a patient elder brother and years of practise to thank for that.” She cannot see Layla, attending near the door, but knows that she is smiling.

They are in the midst of arranging their pieces anew when the hollow clomp of boots on marble alerts them to Obara’s approach. She had left three days before, mounted on her furious stallion, but there is no mistaking that stride. Spear knocking against her shield, she barrels into the room and ignores everyone save the object of her attention, as is her custom. 

“Cousin,” she begins after a nod of greeting, and then jerks her head to the doors. “A word.”

Trystane excuses himself with a bow and a little grin. Obara glances at Margaery as she turns to leave; she smiles, and receives a deep-set glare in return. 

“She’ll be asking him after the mood in the Citadel,” Ellaria guesses when they are gone. “Obara is never easily satisfied, and she’s always hated that the war was so short-lived, that her vengeance was so stale, that she was never given the chance to deal any of the Lannisters their deaths.”

Margaery eats another pepper, and meets Ellaria’s vaguely searching look with one of polite interest. It has been seven years, and people talk, but Margaery does not.

“She carries fine spears, but they are no dragons.”

“True. Still, she has not given up hope for war on the last of the Lannister heads.”

“She will be disappointed,” Margaery wagers, reclining against her cushions. “The Lannisters have enemies everywhere, but none of them are eager to lose more sons to Daenerys, not to kill the Imp. The peace will hold, and it will find Obara sooner or later, if she does not find it.”

~

Margaery slips back into her rooms as the moon is waning, a giant pearl fading into the blue. Willas used to tell her that the same moon shone all throughout Westeros, all over the world. Anyone might be looking up at this same moon; her brothers, a little lion and his mother, the silver queen, a girl in the cold with fire in her hair and a heart of steel. Anyone might see as she does.

She stands at the window for a spell, feeling and fighting the chill as she looks up at the sky, before she hears the creak of hinges. Layla’s head, tousled and yellow like the summer sun, pops out from the entrance to the adjoining servant’s room.

“Sweetling,” she greets her. “What are you doing? I’ve told you that you must stay in this room even when I am away.”

“And I have told you,” Layla scolds briskly, bustling past her to shut the windows, “that I am not prepared to lose my mistress to the desert cold. Honestly, Margaery. Winter _has_ come to Dorne, never mind what the daylight tells you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says absently, kissing Layla’s cheek and linking their arms. She leads them towards the bed, and feels her maid’s curious gaze upon her all throughout her night-time ministrations. 

“On what do you ponder so?” she asks when they finally curl around each other beneath the covers. Margaery shakes her head, clasping Layla by the hand. 

“Nothing, nothing,” she assures her. “I was thinking about the moon.”

~

Nymeria and the two young ones are at play in the yard. Oberyn Martell’s youngest daughters are almost women now, and like the Snakes before them, they pick up the spear and the lance and the whip, leaving the sword in the dust behind them. They go at their elder sister both at once, and though they have yet to graze Nym, their efforts leave them with sweaty, determined grins.

“They are fierce, are they not?” Ellaria’s voice is sad and proud beside Margaery as they look on. “Dorea and Loreza especially look very much like their father, but they remember him little, as the gods would have it.”

“I have seldom seen warriors both so young and so determined,” Margaery says truthfully. 

“Oberyn would have been overflowing with pride. He and his brother were more alike than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms could have ever fathomed, you know. When Doran watched the children at play in the Water Gardens, Oberyn watched his daughters at mock-war in the yard.” Ellaria sniffs, and then gives a rueful laugh. “Look at me, casting a cloud over your day, Lady Margaery.”

Margaery grasps her hand, and squeezes it.

“Never. I enjoy hearing you speak of your family. You did know that he and Willas became great friends?”

The girls tire themselves out as they talk. By the time Dorea and Loreza are lying side by side in the dust, sharing sips from a waterskin, dusk is approaching. Obara stalks through the yard, and after giving Margaery her customary contemptuous look, she shares a quick word with Nym and leaves. Nymeria smiles. She looks deadly and lovely with naked steel in her hands. Margaery knows the look of one calculating a whim, and is prepared for what comes after.

“Lady Margaery,” she calls, and tosses her spear across the yard, blade pointing up. Margaery is not so quick with her body as with her mind, but she is fast enough; she sidesteps the weapon and lets it clatter to the floor.

Nymeria laughs.

“Frightened?” she queries, jogging forward to retrieve it. Margaery remains where she is, Ellaria tut-tutting at her side, and when Nymeria bends to grasp the spear, she is at Margaery’s feet. The blue of her eyes matches that of the sky.

“No,” she says, amused. “But you and I are different women, Lady Nymeria, and a spear is not quite my fit.”

“Oho.” Nym’s eyes sparkle as she rises to her feet and to her normal height, half a head or more above Margaery. “Mayhap next time I shall throw words, or a kiss.”

“Ah, now _those_.” She returns the bitingly playful look. “They are old friends; I keep them sheathed close.”

~

It is to Sarella that Margaery poses her question, and she gets her answer with a curving smile and a brief kiss.

When Obara enters her quarters for the night, fresh from the baths, she finds Margaery sitting naked atop her bed. The reflex is immediate; Margaery sees a muscular hand twitch towards her hip where her whip would be, before she is catalogued as an annoyance rather than a danger. 

Obara throws her clothes into a corner and turns with a growl. Her tunic is damp across her broad shoulders and chest, clinging to her frame. Margaery feels herself getting wet.

“What are you doing?” Obara demands.

“I am seducing you,” Margaery replies in all honesty, knowing that to prevaricate with this woman would be a grave mistake.

Brown eyes widen, but only for a briefest moment.

“Hah!” Obara spits it out like an overripe fruit. “You come into the house of my fathers, make yourself overly welcome in their halls, fuck my sisters, and now you want to fuck _me_?”

“I was invited,” Margaery sees fit to remind her. “And… I do think that you’d like to fuck me too.”

Margaery rises onto her knees, crawling forward so that her breasts and hips sway with every movement. She knows what she looks like; she knows it is a pleasing picture. Obara narrows her close-set eyes, that perpetual scowl still in place.

“Is that what you think?” she asks, arms folded.

“It is. You have a strange way of showing it, but you show it all the same.”

“And what would you do if I were to toss you out of my room this instant?” she deadpans. Her face is as one carved from granite. “Or call the guards, and have them escort you away in that state?”

Margaery swallows briefly; it is unlikely, she knows, but Obara is still a mostly unknown entity to her. She levels out her spine.

“I would hope it was not too cold of a night out,” she replies evenly.

Obara studies her, and she studies Obara in return. All of the Sand Snakes top her in height, and Obara must double her in weight as well. Her arms and thighs are lined with thick muscle, and her breasts are high and full. She is much of what her sisters are not, but if power is beauty, then Obara is as rare a flower as was ever seen.

“Come here,” she commands, and Margaery slips off the bed immediately, dragonflies fluttering in her stomach. Obara rakes her from head to toe, stopping pointedly at the curls between her thighs, and her breasts, nipples pointed and pink.

“Is this what your family sent you here for?” Obara asks meanly, and Margaery flushes, even as she continues to stand proud.

“If I were seducing you for any reasons other than my own, you would be a man, and we would already be three weeks into our marriage,” she states plainly.

Obara snorts, and continues to look at her. Her eyes are flat and desert-coloured, reminding Margaery of both the castle walls and the sands beneath them. She trembles, anticipation beading sweat along her skin.

When Obara reaches forward to pull her close, it is so gentle that Margaery hardly registers the touch, hardly realises that it is this hard woman who grips her so gently, one hand cupping the curve of her bare bottom, the other holding her chin in place to kiss her. Her triumph is lost in the thrill; Obara’s lips are firm and move with purpose, but with a gentleness that seems alien to her strength. Margaery sags against her almost immediately, and Obara jerks her upright, sweeping her tongue into her mouth.

“Ooh…” Margaery moans, heat spreading all over her limbs. Obara turns them, pushing Margaery against the nearest wall. One rough hand cups a breast, massaging the smooth flesh, and the other sinks to where she is already wet and throbbing. Obara positions two fingers just outside her entrance, stiff and snug against the slit.

“Bend your knees,” she orders, voice gravelly. “Lower yourself.”

She doesn’t wait for Margaery to comply, but bends her head to lave and suck at a nipple. Legs shaking, Margaery goes down as told, her mouth opening in a silent gasp as Obara’s fingers fill her with ease. They wriggle, just a little, and Margaery clenches and cries out.

Obara raises her head, rubbing her cheek against Margaery’s.

“Now raise up,” she whispers in her ear. “That’s it, don’t take my fingers with you… good girl.”

There is an almost mocking lilt to her voice to counteract the gentleness, but Margaery barely notices it. She moans again, and doesn’t have time to catch a breath before Obara is ordering her to go down again, then up again, then down and up and down and up, establishing a rhythm as Margaery’s legs start to shake and she grasps for Obara’s shoulders with her fingers. 

“Good… fuck yourself on them.”

“Yes… _please_ …”

A storm is already crashing between her hips. She can feel how slick she is, how there’s barely any friction against the fingers, how they stretch her and fit so tight. Obara doesn’t try to add a third, and Margaery doesn’t think she needs it. She does curve her thumb upward, however, finding that little nub that makes the world go white, and watches intently as Margaery absolutely loses herself.

“Please, Obara, p-please,” she stumbles, jerking her body up and down, feeling her breasts shaking and the beads of sweat dampening her stomach. Her legs feel as if they only stand thanks to the grace of words and wind. “I don’t think I can… I can’t… I’m going to…”

Wordlessly, Obara lifts her off of her feet, kisses her hard, and fucks up into her until Margaery climaxes, wailing into her mouth. Her thumb rubs her to her peak and beyond, and the fingers in her slip out to caress her vulva slickly. Margaery doesn’t try to speak, and only gasps, trembling in her arms. 

Obara deposes her onto the bed when she stops shaking, rids herself of her tunic in one smooth stroke, spreads Margaery’s legs, licks her ways between them and doesn’t come up until she’s dissolving into little cries again, dizzy with Obara’s hot mouth and her strong fingers. 

“Oh, gods,” she gasps, pulling Obara up and tilting her chin to be kissed. The scent of herself on those firm lips is sweet. “You… y-you are very good at that, Lady Obara.”

“It has been said,” Obara agrees. She watches Margaery’s fingers as they trace patterns around her corded arms, her stiff nipples, and up to her lips.

“And yet you still frown,” Margaery observes.

“Well,” Obara says flatly. She flips them so that she lies prone on her back, and fits Margaery astride her waist. There might be the faintest light in her eyes, but it might also be Margaery’s imagination. “You must make me smile, then.”

The Rose of Highgarden laughs sweetly, fingers to her lips. She very much enjoys being right.

“I think I am equal to the task.”

~

The Tower of the Sun is brilliant at sunset. A balcony on the westward side of the Spear Tower gives a perfect view of the dome under the bleeding sky. The setting sun lends its orange light to the golden panes, and together they give an illusion of melting jewels, liquid and magnificent and even more so with the light from the heavens as a backdrop. There is nothing else in nature with a colour like that of the Dornish sky.

This is where Sarella finds Margaery, sat upon a bench while Layla and the Lady Lance whisper in a corner. Margaery looks up. Sarella holds a small silver platter in one hand and a bottle in the other; filled, she suspects, with the sweet Summer Islander wine that she so loves.

Sarella proffers the platter first; a roll of parchment lies upon it. 

“A letter from my uncle,” she announces. Margaery opens it and finds what she expects; a polite invitation from the Prince to visit him at his place of rest.

“I will write back immediately,” she says, pleased. Sarella uncorks the wine with a pop and drinks straight from the bottle. “When do you think I should go?”

“When you please; it is an open invitation.” Sarella pauses for thought, then shrugs. “But give him some time. If he says that he extends his welcome from tomorrow, he will expect you next week. That is his way.”

Margaery does not mind; she has time and time enough. When Sarella extends the bottle, she smiles, imp-like, and takes several liberal sips before passing it on to Elia. 

“It will be nice to see the Water Gardens. I have heard much about the pools.”

“They are beautiful,” Sarella concedes. “Mine uncle says seeing the children at plays help him think and relax. For him, it is a well-earned rest.”

Margaery looks out at the fiery dome in all its splendid colours, reaching for the sky. She can feel Layla watching her as she sips demurely from the strong wine. 

“So I have heard. I think I shall like it there.”

They pass the bottle back and forth, drinking like peasant girls until their stomachs are full and their heads are light beneath the starlit sky.

~

Silverstrain prances with excitement, thrilled to be shown out of the stables after so long beneath its roof. Sarella had tried to convince her to take one of their Dornish sand steeds, but her mare could use the exercise, and is more than capable of a three league ride along the sunny coast. Margaery rubs her grey coat and keeps her well in hand as the servants mill about them.

“Are you sure you won’t travel with the wheelhouse?” asks Nymeria again. She looks born to ride, sitting astride her sleek mount. Margaery had been surprised to find that she intended to come along, but Nym only gave a smile like whiplash, and said that a lady needed an escort.

“Quite sure.” Margaery urges her horse next to Nymeria’s. “If you gave your solemn word not to cheat, I might even race you.”

Nymeria’s laughter is as sharp as her smile.

“You go too far as usual, Lady Margaery.”

“My apologies. It must be all these Dornish spices, inflaming my blood.”

A dark hand grabs hold of her reigns, turning her horse around as Nymeria laughs again. Sarella rolls her eyes mildly. She is wearing her chain again, and bears the weight of it with regal calm.

“Come, we should leave now, if we are to beat the sun.”

Margaery glances around the courtyard. Ferland and Calum sit ahorse, at the ready with a dozen or more of their Dornish counterparts. Most of the packing is done, and Layla waves to her from a window in the wheelhouse. There is one face that she misses.

“Will Obara not see us off?” Most of the others have already said their goodbyes, save Elia, who has forgone her steed to journey in the wheelhouse alongside Layla and the rest of their small party.

“Obara rode ahead,” Nymeria drawls, raising her hand to give the signal to raise the portcullis. “She will meet us on the way.”

The words gladden Margaery’s heart. She turns to face the gates, seated between the two sisters with her guards fore and aft. Dorne’s cool, quiet morning is cut across by the groan of the gates, working and lifting themselves up, baring the vista to sight. In the distance, she spies a solitary figure on horseback, high upon a dune. Obara. The sun may be high before they catch her, but Margaery has long learnt to relish the heat.


End file.
